Secrets
by girl in the glen
Summary: The House of Vanya is about more than fashion, and Napoleon has a suspicion concerning his friend's lucrative enterprise, and events from the past threaten to destroy the present. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

The workroom was strewn with fabrics, some of them in shreds, the tables cluttered with the implements that were normally arranged in neat rows. One sewing machine was on the floor, up ended and probably damaged beyond repair. It was a mess, and obviously the work of vandals or thieves.

Regina Mills had arrived for work at her regular time of seven o'clock, ready to get her day organized; she had a schedule to adhere to if the House of Vanya was to have a collection to show. Seeing the disarray that greeted her had stopped her at the doorway, and the dread of informing Mr. Kuryakin caused her heart to sink as she visualized the cold blue stare that she knew would accompany him when he arrived.

Regina knew enough to not touch anything or try to clean up the space. Mr. Kuryakin must have been psychic to inform his employees of the proper protocol should something criminal occur within the business; otherwise how would he have foreseen something like this? Who in their right mind would vandalize a sewing room?

When Illya Kuryakin received the phone call from Regina Mills about her discovery it confirmed what he had suspected for days: working for UNCLE had brought back the old threats and suspicions. His business was now under more scrutiny than it had been for years, and the intrigue of the spy trade had returned in full bloom from its dormant years beneath the successes he had achieved in the fashion industry.

He looked around his apartment. It was finely appointed with a scrupulously applied casual elegance that defied definition by any standards. His old affinity for simplicity transcended his hard won affluence, and the years of his youth that were filled with lack and little else seemed to still permeate his style.

Illya snorted his trademark derision at the term: style. He had astounded the spy world by trading in his life with the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement and embarking on a most unexpected, and inexplicable career in fashion design. Even he wondered at times why this world rather than the other, until remembering the events that led up to his resignation. Too many deaths still gave the Russian nightmares that he wouldn't wish on his old enemies in THRUSH. Combined with years under the grueling dominion of the Soviet system, Illya's service at UNCLE had left him bereft of hope and swimming in a sea of remorse for his lack of family and love… He still lacked those things. But, he no longer shed blood for a living.

Some men leave a violent life and take on the devotion of religious orders or sell their services as security advisors. Neither of those paths would have worked for Kuryakin. Beneath the still waters of the blond's exterior there had been some turbulent, hungry appetites that still ruled him at times. He had no desire to quell them completely, nor did he wish to exchange his expertise for money. At least not as someone's security lackey.

Turning to fashion had been lunacy on the surface, but Illya's years in Paris had netted him some friends in the industry, and years of frugal living had garnered a sizeable off shore bank account. Those two elements had fueled part of the business, but the key thing for Illya had been a desire to distance himself completely from anything remotely like the life he had been living up until the moment he walked out of Del Floria's for the last time.

Illya Kuryakin was a type of _Renaissance man_, given to artistic pursuits as well as intellectual. A collection of impressive degrees did not keep him from his musical and artistic pursuits, although not many people gave much thought to the latter. Napoleon had heard him play guitar and piano occasionally and noted, sometimes with a certain amount of amusement, the sketches that were left lying about.

After Napoleon's initial shock at finding Illya in the rag business, as he had put it in the bar one night, the American half of UNCLE's once premier pairing had eventually remembered his friend's various talents and concluded that parlaying them into a specific genre of work was not as far fetched as originally thought. Illya was a methodical thinker, and design was very methodical in his hands. The lines had purpose and beauty, something that was completely consistent with the Russian's personality and temperament.

Napoleon also suspected that Illya had used his business as a decoy at times. Once a spy, always a spy.

The two friends now stood staring at the destruction and disarray within the Vanya workroom. Napoleon had no idea that fabric and thread could make such a mess.

The Russian sighed, his patented melancholic, resigned expression of disbelief at the chaos of life. Illya picked up a strip of green dupioni silk; it had been destined for a design he was particularly fond of.

"This is going to cost a fortune to replace. I'd better have Monique call the insurance company. Excuse me, please, Napoleon. Feel free to look around. I have a feeling this is related to that last venture we were involved with."

Napoleon thought back to New Orleans and the man in the flowered shirt. They had lost him in the crowds of Mardi Gras, mistaken another fellow who must have been sent in as a decoy, in spite of his ignorance concerning their mystery man.

"Do you suppose that THRUSH is still involved? This looks to have been a pretty thorough search, as though there was something specific to be found. Is there anything you want to tell me, tovarisch?"

Illya hesitated in the doorway at that question. How much should he tell his former partner? Former? No, they were at it again and this time there was more at stake than the world. Illya's world no longer revolved around UNCLE, nor did Napoleon's. It was lunacy, but these affairs of late were more of a hobby than a vocation to the two middle aged men. The man who had once been the heartthrob of every woman at headquarters was older, and slightly grey at the temples. And Illya was no longer a tow headed foreigner with a disarming accent. The hair was dark blond now, and the accent decidedly less exotic among the increasingly exotic city of New York.

"Let me finish up in here with some phone calls and we'll go have a talk. I suppose there are a few details I might have left out during some of our previous conversations."

To Napoleon that sounded like an understatement of gargantuan proportions. When Illya said 'a few', what he meant was that there was a portfolio of information coming that would fuel their conversation for hours.

It was going to be a long day.


	2. Chapter 2

Illya finished his business with the insurance company and left his workroom in the able hands of his assistant, Regina. The woman was meticulous in her handling of the garments and the people who made them. Regina was a match for the Russian designer when it came to maintaining a smooth and efficient operation, not unlike the regimen of writing reports for UNCLE. Illya had recognized in this woman a dutiful and loyal employee, able to keep what she saw and did at the House of Vanya within its walls. No one had ever been able to ferret out any of the designs, or details of how the handsome blond ran his business.

Napoleon was waiting in the reception area, chatting up Celeste Newcombe, the lovely woman who screened all of the calls for Illya. Assuming the role of a moody, uncommunicative artiste had not been much of a stretch for him, Napoleon figured, and found it ironic that even here in this environment, the women were still trying to get his friend's attention and failing.

When the two finally settled down at a table in the Russian Café, the scene of their first meeting after fifteen years, Illya was withdrawn and tentative in his conversation. It took Napoleon's wealth of manipulations to remove the barriers that had gone up between them in just the time it took to grab a taxi and ride to the restaurant.

"Illya, you were ready to have a conversation with me less than an hour ago. What's happened? What do you know about the break in at your studio?"

The chatter of conversations and balalaika music in the background made Illya feel smothered by memories and misgivings. Perhaps it was a mistake to include Napoleon in his … Were they secrets? It was unfathomable to think of finally admitting the truth about what had happened so many years ago. Then again, knowing Napoleon's propensity for getting to the bottom of things, he might already have surmised what was yet untold.

"I apologize, my friend. It's just that, after all of these years, I am not yet used to having someone in whom I can confide."

Napoleon snorted at that. Illya had never confided in anyone, not really. What was he about to hear from his stoic friend?

"Illya, I don't want to hear anything you aren't comfortable telling me. But, if you need help, I'm here. And, it would certainly be a lot easier if I know what it is I'm supposed to do, and why."

The waiter appeared at their table with menus and mineral water adorned with lemon wedges. The heavy tapestries at the far end of the room countered the frivolous sounding group of women at a nearby table. Illya couldn't talk here, and wondered momentarily why he had chosen this place.

"We have changed our minds. We won't be ordering. Sorry."

He threw down a twenty-dollar bill for compensation of the server's time and headed for the door. Napoleon was a few paces behind his friend, now more puzzled than before.

As the two hit the sidewalk the sun assaulted them as it bounced off of concrete and glass, causing Illya to shield his eyes from the offending glare. Reaching into his pocket to retrieve sunglasses, his eyes caught a movement that made his blood run cold. Old intuitive impulses overcame the Russian's mood as he turned to push Napoleon down onto the sidewalk, evading a bullet that buried itself into the concrete behind them.

A few people reacted, ducking and screaming, while others simply walked past without recognizing what had transpired. Illya felt his heart beating out of control as he and Napoleon sought the stability of an explanation, his hands shaking in rhythm to his speeding pulse.

"What the… Illya? Let us get gone from here, tovarisch. I'm ready for an explanation, and it better be good."

The blond dusted himself off, tried to steady himself against the turmoil. Napoleon was right, of course. The details of what he feared needed a sounding board, and who better than his old partner to hear it. If nothing else it would serve as a type of confessional for the prodigal that he was.

Napoleon's penthouse was stunning, perfectly appointed with all of the comforts required by a man of his position and … pursuits. A lone photo hung on the wall commemorating his time at UNCLE; an in-house mock up of a confrontation with THRUSH. He wondered now at how Waverly had talked him and Illya into posing for that very cheesy picture, and for what purpose it had been created. He didn't know if there was another copy of it anywhere, but had assumed his was the only one. Time had changed everything. Depending on what Illya had to say, perhaps more than even Napoleon suspected.

"Drink?"

Illya shook his head. He needed it to be clear in order to divulge this bit of his history, and how it related to what had just happened. Everything he had done to keep this part of his life separate from the old days and the people in it was failing him now. Not even UNCLE could guarantee what he so desperately desired.

"I think we'd better just sit down and …'

Even as he said that Illya had started to pace. Napoleon noted the tension in his friend's face, the almost imperceptible tremor in the right hand as he raised it to brush back his long hair.

"Illya, for gods sake, sit down and tell me what this is all about. I might be able to help you. Is it the business? Are you in trouble there?"

Illya shook his head again, collapsed into a large armchair and threw his head back over the top of the cushion. With his eyes closed against the unrelenting sun that was streaming through sheers at the large windows, the Russian began his story.

"Do you remember Quadripartite?"

Illya's voice was low, almost a whisper, as he asked the question. Napoleon nodded, then replied when he saw Illya had closed his eyes.

"Yes, vividly. I remember you and Marian, and not having a chance with her after she laid eyes on you."

Illya smiled at the memory of the beautiful blonde, of nights spent together after the mission had ended. He had been very happy then.

"Marian and I spent… we spent quite a lot of time together afterwards. And again, after the Giuoco Piano Affair, we reconnected."

Napoleon knew all of this, and wondered why Illya was going into it as though they hadn't both been there.

"Does Marian have something to do with your business? I'm not following the …"

And then it dawned on the American just where this conversation was going. He still didn't understand what it had to do with being shot at, or the mess in the Vanya workroom. Napoleon could only think of one reason that his friend's emotions were turned inside out like this.

Napoleon had run into Marian a few years back. She was with her husband and…

"Illya, did you and Marian…? Where, I mean… Good God, Illya. She's yours?"

And then Illya finally looked at his friend as tears filled his eyes.

~~~~~:

The history referred to is in these two stories, found here on

A Fragile Heart

One Time


	3. Chapter 3

The room fell quiet as the two men contemplated each other and, with snatches of memory between them, the revelation that Illya's face betrayed to his friend.

Napoleon was caught between shock and a tingle of disappointment. Illya had fathered a child with Marian Raven, and had never told him. Partners, friends… but not enough so to share this important piece of information?

"Illya, I don't know quite what to say. But, I do need to ask you why…that is, why didn't you tell me? How long have you known about … a son, or a daughter… which is it?"

Illya looked miserable, the tears that had threatened to spill onto his face had remarkably disappeared. Leave it to the Russian to not finish a truly emotional moment.

Suddenly the room seemed claustrophobic, and the thought of divulging what had been kept secret for all of these years caused his throat to tighten in anticipation of it. Napoleon should have known, might have figured it out had he ever stopped to consider how quickly Marion had found a husband and then given birth to a child. A daughter.

"I have a daughter. Her name is Nicolette; a small gesture on Marian's part to capture a part of my name.'

He paused and let another memory illustrate the moment.

"She looks like her mother."

Wistful. That was the word for it, Napoleon thought. Illya looked wistful.

"Considering how much you two looked alike, I imagine she also resembles you, my friend. How long have you know about her?"

Illya slumped back into the chair, his appearance suddenly matching his age. For just a brief moment, time threatened to catch up to the eternally youthful blond. Napoleon made a note of it, then mentally tossed it aside.

"Look, Illya…'

What to say to the man? His friend had a child he couldn't claim as his own, and people were shooting at them for a reason not yet clarified for the older man. Reuniting with his old partner had certainly brought back some of the old lifestyle, like ducking behind doors and trying to avoid being killed.

"How is this related to what happened at your work, or the shot that was fired at us outside of the restaurant?"

How indeed? How had Illya let Marion steal his heart all of those years ago? Why did he agree to give up his child? UNCLE had cost the Russian over the years, but this hurt more than any amount of THRUSH torture or broken love affairs. It hurt worse than the debacle in Yugoslavia when the girl had died and Janus had betrayed him.

Illya had lost his only child, given her up to another man. She called someone else 'father', learned to ride a bicycle under his tutelage, had run into his arms for comfort when she fell.

How was it related?

"Marion's first husband was Gerald Lindsay. He became Nicolette's father, and never questioned Marion about … about me. She never told him…"

Napoleon hated this, and watching his friend he knew that this narrative was difficult to tell. The normally unreadable face was taut with emotions that hadn't surfaced in years, probably.

"Illya…"

The blond shook his head.

"I need for you to know this now. I should have told you back then… when it happened. I was too shell shocked, and afraid of Waverly. I thought he might send me back to Russia if I was caught fathering children all over Manhattan. I was a coward, really. I should have … I could have done more, or done something differently…"

Napoleon had to smile.

"All over Manhattan. Illya, really. I had no idea."

Illya smiled at that, the first one in hours.

"You know what I mean. We were supposed to act according to those high standards, and getting our innocents pregnant was not included in those. We were still just barely partners.'

Illya sighed and leaned his head onto the back of the chair.

"I was crazy about her. She scared me, though. It was all so… perfect."

Napoleon raised an eyebrow at that.

"And perfect was frightening to you? Were you really that… naïve?"

Another smile from the man behind Vanya. Those years were so far away now.

"No, not naïve. But I wasn't completely certain of things here, of the people or where I stood in the big scheme of things. I should have trusted you, though. And for not trusting you, your friendship, I apologize."

Napoleon had known his Russian partner struggled at times with life in New York, with small pockets of prejudice. He hadn't paid a lot of attention to the young Soviet early on in their partnership. It was all about the work in the beginning, of finding that balance between efficiency and trust.

Illya had not been the easiest man to get to know, and only a deepening of their friendship had finally alerted Napoleon to why: the younger man's background was rife with turmoil, from his childhood to the moment he signed on with UNCLE. There had never been an agent from the Soviet Union, and being first was no easier for Kuryakin than for any other experimental archetype.

London had been difficult for him as a new recruit, and New York had presented its own problems, not the least of which was getting shot up on one of their earliest assignments. Illya had almost died that day. Amazingly, it wouldn't be the last time.

Now Napoleon realized how abruptly Illya and Marion had broken off their relationship. What had begun as a bright spot in the life of the normally solitary Russian had ended without fanfare or warning. Thinking back on it now, Napoleon couldn't remember Illya talking about her from that point forward. It was simply over.

"How long have you known about … Nicolette? Did Marion tell you she was pregnant?"

Illya closed his eyes again, thinking back to when he first knew of the baby girl he would not be allowed to parent. There had been a casual encounter at a well known restaurant; Illya had a date with him that night and Marian was with her husband. At the time Illya was unaware of the couple, but he did remember to the day when he had last seen her; it was the day he walked out of her apartment for the last time.

Marion and Gerald Lindsay. Illya was a little surprised, but tried to conceal his emotions for the sake of his date. It was awkward and a little heartbreaking, even though the decision to end the relationship had been Illya's. There had been something about Marion that night, something unexplained until Illya learned she was pregnant. In spite of her happiness at expecting a child, a melancholy floated around Marion and wafted around the two couples until it began to permeate the dumbfounded Russian. They all attempted to make light conversation in the few minutes they shared, but their news had brought on a gloom with which Illya was too familiar.

Marion was pregnant with his child, and he knew it. She knew instantly that he had figured it out, and only Gerald and Sharon, Illya's date that night, were left ignorant as to why each of their companions suddenly fell into a silent brooding.

After the baby was born, Illya had stolen into the Lindsay home in the early morning hours to see his daughter. Only once, and never again did he venture into her life.

Until now.

"Gerald Lindsay died last year under very mysterious circumstances. His company was taken over by a man called Roberts. Nathan Roberts. He worked his way into the vice-presidency of Gerald's company in record time and now occupies the seat previously held by Marion's deceased husband… Nicolette's father."

Napoleon's heart went out to his friend with that last sentence. Having to refer to another man as his own daughter's father…

"Illya, what is this leading up to, because I know it's going somewhere."

Illya raised his left eyebrow, a smile played at the corners of his mouth. The intrigue just never stopped.

"Yes, it is leading right to the door of the birdhouse, Napoleon. THRUSH, in its reincarnation as legitimate business enterprises, controls Nathan Roberts. And, Nathan Roberts knows that I am Nicolette's real father. He also knows that I was, or am… whatever it is we are these days… an UNCLE agent. He knows who I am."

Napoleon was still a little baffled by this situation. Why was Nicolette involved in this? Or was she? Perhaps Illya was being over-protective.

"What exactly does this company do? Why is THRUSH so interested in it?"

Illya pushed his hair back with both hands, exposing the broad forehead, suddenly looking much as he had fifteen years earlier.

"Dynatel is a communications company that is leading the way in computerized telephony. They have contracts with NASA, foreign governments, and major corporations. Need I go on? If THRUSH were to gain control of a company with that kind of far reaching technology…"

"Yeah, I see that.'

Napoleon did see it; he had sold his own computer company and knew firsthand the demands that were on tap for technology companies.

"What I don't understand is how your daughter figures into all of this."

At that question Illya stood up and walked to the window where he stood looking out, his body language radiating tension.

"Marion is engaged to marry Roberts. The only thing standing between them is me, and what I know about him. And, the only thing keeping me from warning her is my concern for Nicolette. For once in my life, my friend, I am afraid of the consequences."

Napoleon had risen from the sofa and was now standing beside his friend. Marion and Nathan Roberts. It was inconceivable that Illya's daughter might soon have a THRUSH for a stepfather.

"What do you want us to do, tovarisch?"


	4. Chapter 4

Marion Raven-Lindsay had enjoyed a life of abundance, both financially and personally. She had a beautiful daughter who was the joy of her existence; her marriage had been a happy one and Gerald had loved her unconditionally. It was a precious quality in a man to devote himself so entirely to a woman and her child, especially when the girl's father had remained a mystery.

Even now, Marion never spoke of Illya Kuryakin, and Nicolette, their daughter, only knew one father: Gerald Lindsay.

In the year since Gerald's death Marion had insisted on carrying the weight of his business concerns, attending board meetings and trying to oversee the projects that her late husband had begun but, sadly, been unable to complete. When Nathan Roberts stepped up and offered to take on those tasks as well as his own, Marion had been relieved and grateful.

Now finally able to breathe freely concerning the state of Dynatel, Marion had begun to see Nathan occasionally outside of the office. He was a charming man, intelligent and handsome… all things that attracted the widow and created a sense of security that she longed to have again.

Nicolette had not been so quick to welcome this new man. She had adored her father and his sudden death had left a void in the young woman's life that was slow in mending. She found it difficult to accept that her mother could so easily move on in such a short period of time. Nicolette was eighteen going on thirty, her mother constantly chided, a trait she did not inherit from Marion. She was also less trusting and had a penchant for investigating anything new that came into her life. Nathan Roberts was no exception.

Nathan Roberts had moved into his position at Dynatel with ease, his efficiency and stellar performance records recommending him as heartily as had several high-powered executives. Gerald Lindsay had brought on the talented Mr. Roberts with the understanding that he could not be merely a paid participant: Roberts expected to learn the business from the inside out and eventually assume a top spot in the company.

That spot had materialized sooner than anticipated by most after Gerald's death. If anyone suspected foul play, none of them had pointed a finger at the affable Nathan Roberts. For all intents and purposes, he was a good friend to the Lindsays, and had buoyed the company considerably with his expertise and non-stop work ethics.

Nathan Roberts was everyone's choice to move into the top position in Dynatel. No one suspected his part in the death of Gerald Lindsay.

The day that followed Illya's emotional revelation found him and Napoleon in an early morning meeting at the office of the Russian designer and sometime UNCLE agent. After all of their years of separation, the ease with which the two men could launch into a mission defied any speculation that they had lost their special connection. More than a few THRUSH had wondered at the ability of the Solo/Kuryakin partnership to confound some absurd new plan for world domination, seemingly without ever voicing their intentions.

It was always a point of pride for Alexander Waverly that his instincts had proven so reliable in pairing the two young agents. His regrets over their departures had never quite been resolved; his refusal to consider anything of more value than the ideology inherent in his organization's purposeful pursuits as much a hindrance as a catalyst for success.

Still, those two had held a special place for the old man, even to the end of his life.

Today the two partners were pursuing their own version of world peace. Individual lives had taken on a very important role for each of them, and if Illya's estranged daughter was in danger, then nothing would stand in the way of them removing whoever was posing that threat.

"Napoleon, were you on good terms with Marion the last time you saw her?"

The question caught Napoleon in a perusal of the office. Illya had sketches on the upholstered wall that served as a giant bulletin board. A particularly attractive green dress had a swatch of green silk attached to it, and Napoleon recognized it as the same fabric Illya had remarked upon the day before as he held up a shredded piece.

"Um, Marion and me? Well, I believe we were friendly, although she still seemed to have a certain apprehension about me, perhaps from my part in our last mission together. I don't know why she held me responsible…'

He looked at Illya and had a flash of memory: Marion with her arm across Illya's chest as she ordered Napoleon out of her apartment. He didn't see Illya for several days afterwards.

"I guess it was only natural, she was very concerned about you in those days."

He winked at the blond, who returned a look reminiscent of the old days.

"I believe you are probably correct."

The days of languid and playful days in Marion's apartment came back to the blond, and the probability that his… their daughter… had been conceived during that week of lovemaking and unprecedented ease was both comforting and troubling. It was a bittersweet memory now.

"What I'm wondering, my friend, is whether or not you might be able to gain entrance into Dynatel via your friendship with Marion. I am uncertain as to whether Roberts knows you, although we might assume that where …"

Napoleon chimed in.

"Where there is one, there is probably the other."

Both men smiled at that oft used lament. They had done some damage in their days with UNCLE.

"Yes, that is what I was thinking. What I a hoping, however, is that in spite of the assault yesterday, you are perhaps not who they are targeting and therefore…"

Again, Napoleon was ready to finish his friend's sentence.

"Still under the radar. Yes, that might be possible. In any event, it can't be that difficult to walk in and get an appointment with an old friend."

The two men smiled, a familiar conspiratorial smile that hearkened back to the days when enemy agents cringed at the prospect of encountering UNCLE's top team.

"Yes, old friends indeed. I suppose today is as good a day as any, then. Perhaps you might ask Marion to lunch?"

Napoleon agreed with a nod of his head. Today they would begin their assault on Nathan Roberts, and perhaps gain for Illya the daughter he had relinquished so many years ago.


	5. Chapter 5

Dynatel, Inc. was situated in an upscale building within walking distance of the United Nations. It was an irony of rather impressive proportions that for all of those years during the heyday of Illya Kuryakin's career with the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, Marion's husband was doing business just a few doors down. The proximity was still something that, even now, made the Russian expatriot feel the slightest tinge of remorse and, if he was honest with himself, jealousy.

Illya looked at his watch again and wondered how Napoleon was getting on in his attempt to contact Marion. It was essential that she not fully realize Illya's involvement in this, at least not at this point. He didn't believe that she had ever truly forgiven him for letting her go, even though her tender confessions at the time coincided with his own unease at their relationship. The fact that he had fathered a child should have changed it for both of them, and after all of these years it was now a fully entrenched point of view that he had failed on many levels.

Back in the old neighborhood, Napoleon was thinking something entirely different.

Napoleon Solo could always make an entrance, and the one he engineered for his appearance at Dynatel was no exception to his unofficial rules. Elegant in a dark blue Saville Row suit, he managed to gain approval from several people upon entering the lobby. The suit was no competition for his smile, however, and when he flashed it at the comely brunette behind the reception desk, she flattered herself that she might yet land a rich husband and live happily, and prosperously, ever after.

"Hello, I hope you can help me. My name is Napoleon Solo, and I am here to see Marion Lindsay. We're _very old _ friends."

He couldn't resist adding a wink to that last, at which the girl (Sandi with an 'i', not a 'y'), smiled demurely, batting her very long, very false eyelashes.

"Oh, I find it hard to believe you are an _old friend_ Mr. Solo."

Napoleon was pleased with the response and decided the 80's weren't so bad after all.

"Well, I do like new friends as well.''

Another wink made Sandi blush while she wrote out her phone number on a company card.

"Let me call Mrs. Lindsay and see if she's in her office. And, this is for when you want to make a new friend… maybe over drinks?"

Napoleon took the card, letting his fingers gently touch the girl's hand as he did. Message received, now on to business.

Sandi dutifully placed the call upstairs to the executive suite, knowing full well that Marion Lindsay was indeed in her office. There were standing instructions to never give out the location of either Mrs. Lindsay or Mr. Roberts, and Sandi always followed instructions.

After receiving a positive response to Napoleon's inquiry, Sandi handed him a three cornered badge to wear while visiting Dynatel. Napoleon couldn't help thinking that Marion had taken the idea from her forays into UNCLE headquarters, and wondered how often she had revisited those days in the years since.

The building itself was not new, built perhaps during the 50's, a part of the New York he had so often traversed during his days with UNCLE. The other UNCLE, he reminded himself. This new organization that had recruited him was not the same without the old man at the helm, although he rather liked Sir John Raleigh. Nothing could ever equal those early days, however, as he and Illya fought for right at Alexander Waverly's word. Things were certainly different this time around.

Napoleon reached the top floor of the Dynatel building with a resounding 'ding' from the elevator. When the doors opened the scene before him was one of subdued elegance, a sophisticated interior that defied the drab exterior of the building.

Marion was standing at the door of her office, still beautiful in a blue silk blouse atop a slim black skirt. Her hair was styled in a soft French twist accentuated by just a slight fringe of bangs. So much like Illya, the woman had not aged like the rest of the world.

Marion smiled that irrepressible smile of hers and opened her arms in welcome.

"Napoleon Solo! How long has it been?"

Napoleon embraced her, a genuine affection overtaking the mission he was on.

"Marion, you look as beautiful as ever. And as for how long it's been…hmm… Five years, I think."

The blonde examined Napoleon thoughtfully, her eyes taking in the man before her and the memory of the other one usually in his company.

"Yes, Gerald was very impressed with you, Napoleon. He watched your company and very nearly made an offer on it. Someone beat him to it… congratulations on that. You did very well for yourself after… after."

He nodded, and wondered what was going through Marion's mind.

"Yes, after. A lot has changed through the years. But not you, the years haven't touched you, Marion."

That brought a smile tinged with melancholy, and Napoleon realized the years had taken something from her as well.

"I was very sorry to hear about your husband. It must have been quite a shock; no warning of any health issues."

Marion shook her head, lowered her eyes momentarily as she recalled the suddenness of her husband's illness and subsequent death.

Marion motioned for Napoleon to follow her and they entered into her sumptuously furnished office. Mahogany flooring was the anchor to a room done in shades of deep teal green, accented by pale blues in the pillows on the sofa. The jewel tones of the 80's were certainly an influence here, yet the room retained a more elegant stride, the touches subtle and refined. A colorful floral arrangement of roses, hydrangeas and sweet peas was the primary burst of color in the room, reminding Napoleon that Marion herself was given to sudden bursts of emotion in spite of a cool outer demeanor. The room was definitely a reflection of the woman who occupied it.

Marion continued the conversation as they each took a seat, she in an overstuffed club chair and he on the chenille sofa.

"No, there were no warnings. He just suddenly became ill, and within two days he was gone. It was devastating, and of course my daughter was… '

She looked intently at Napoleon, suspicion suddenly usurping her train of thought.

"My daughter. Is that why you're here, Napoleon? Did you come on Illya's behalf? I won't pretend that you don't know the details, or that he is most probably concerned about Nathan Roberts."

Napoleon was taken off guard by this turn. Marion was certainly as sharp as ever, and now he wondered what she knew about Roberts.

"Marion, why do you ask? Can't old friends merely be catching up on the years? But, you're correct in assuming that I am aware… well…"

"That Illya is the father of my daughter? I thought so. If he thinks he can just step into that role now and take over where Gerald left off, he is sadly mistaken. I have no intention of exposing Nicolette to that type of emotional upheaval, I… I… "

Marion could still get herself worked up over the Russian, Napoleon noted. She always did have trouble finishing sentences where Illya was concerned.

"Marion, I assure you that Illya, while concerned and currently very vulnerable, emotionally, is not going to…"

Marion jumped up from her seat and pointed a finger in Napoleon's face.

"Vulnerable? Illya Kuryakin is vulnerable emotionally? You've got to be kidding me. That man has never…'

Her hands flew to her face, covering it and concealing yet another break in the exterior of a woman hoping against hope to hold everything together.

"Oh God, poor Illya. It wasn't his fault, and yet I still get so angry with him for not trying harder. I know what UNCLE's policies were during those days, and to be honest, I sent him away with a sigh of relief that shamed me. He was so sweet, Napoleon, but so afraid of being happy. With me. I made it that way, I drove him away."

Now Napoleon got up and enveloped Marion in a hug that tore loose the barriers holding years of regret and tears. A torrent rushed forth as she sobbed into his shoulder, prompting him to give her his handkerchief before she leaked anything more obtrusive than tears.

"Ssshhh, Marion… it's all right. Illya was just as confused as you, and you were both innocent in many ways. You must have been very frightened to face the prospect of having a child all alone. I think Gerald must have loved you very much."

Marion straightened up, wiping her eyes and nose with Napoleon's handkerchief. She hadn't cried like that for a long time, not since the early months after her husband's death.

"Thank you, Napoleon. You always were a dear.'

Her eyes looked up into his, and he knew what the next question would be.

"How is Illya? Truly. Is he all right? I mean, I know he's doing well in his business, something that continues to amaze me. But, how is he?"

Napoleon didn't have an accurate answer for her; even he couldn't always tell how his friend fared emotionally. Nothing had changed in that department.

"I think he's as well as he can be, all thing considered. He feels the loss of his daughter's presence in his life, but continues to take the blame for it. Marion, we are both concerned about…"

"Nathan Roberts."

She said it without hesitation, surprising Napoleon and reminding him once again that Marion was a very intelligent woman behind the beautiful exterior.

"Yes. How much do you know about him?"

Marion looked towards the window that framed a glistening New York skyline. She inhaled a breath that had been too long in coming, she thought. Finally, finally something would be done to vindicate her husband.

"I know that he killed Gerald. I don't know how, but he did it. Is that why you're here, Napoleon?"


	6. Chapter 6

The conversation with Marion had been more than a revelation to Napoleon. The woman was in dangerous waters and he had a real concern for her safety. It was with a certain amount of trepidation that he presented the account to Illya.

Napoleon met his friend at Vanya's, where the scene was much improved over earlier in the day. It was to be hoped that Illya's mood would be in a similar condition.

"Come back here, we can talk in my office."

Illya led the way down a narrow corridor that was lined with photographs of women in an array of eveningwear. That had become the signature of the House of Vanya, in spite of a few ventures in corporate and sportswear design. It wasn't that Illya couldn't do those, but he didn't enjoy them; it turned out that the sometimes surly Russian had a luxurious side that manifested in beautiful evening attire. He had always worn a tuxedo well, and had owned three or four during his years with UNCLE.

He didn't always favor a turtleneck.

At the moment what Illya Kuryakin wanted was to hear the details of Napoleon and Marion's meeting. He wasn't certain what he anticipated, but at least contact had been made and there might be hope for controlling the situation.

"Here, have a seat. Are you hungry? I can send out for something…"

Napoleon was shaking his head no. He had lunched with Marion after her tearful confession. Afterwards, Napoleon had used every bit of self control to keep from exploding at the details Marion gave him of her very dangerous plan to expose Nathan Roberts.

"I'm fine, Illya. Eat something if you're … No? Okay. Well, we didn't have anything figured out, tovarisch. Marion is two steps ahead of us, but treading dangerously close to shark infested waters, I'm afraid."

Illlya frowned, his brow in concentrated furrows as he listened to Napoleon.

"I don't understand. Please don't be cryptic, Napoleon. What exactly is going on?"

Napoleon pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath.

"Marion knows that Roberts killed her husband."

Illya blanched slightly at that.

"What? How? But… she's engaged to the man?"

Napoleon was shaking his head again.

"No, that was premature. Where did you hear that, by the way?"

"I… I read it. There was an announcement… no, it was an article and in it there was speculation… that's all it was then. Speculation."

The phone rang, causing Illya to utter a familiar Russian curse. He picked it up, though, and his response did little to hide his irritation at the interruption.

"I told you to hold… What? … When? … No, no I don't want to make a statement at this time. Just tell them we have no comment. Thank you Cecily… Oui, s'il vous plait. Merci… Oui. À bientôt"

Illya turned to look at Napoleon, his expression sad.

"What is it, Illya?"

The older man had a sudden surge of concern; it couldn't be Marion or Nicolette. No one would contact Illya about them. What then?

"My salon in Paris has been vandalized. Cecily, my manager, says that thirty gowns were destroyed. I need to go there, within the next few days, to oversee … well, I just need to be there."

Napoleon felt the weight of this drama with the unfolding of each new event. The workroom here, Marion, now Paris.

"Illya, we need to protect Marion. She is intent upon exposing Nathan Roberts' role in Gerald's death. She has been seeing him socially in order to try and wrangle some information out of him, and I'm concerned about her. And, I'm concerned about you."

Illya looked intently at his friend, the reality of this situation was becoming increasingly distressing, and the danger to Marion and their daughter now seemed even more threatening.

"Nathan Roberts is behind all of this, Napoleon. The vandalism, the shooting yesterday afternoon… all of it. If he figures out that Marion knows what he's done, he'll kill her. His attempts to intimidate me are because he knows Nicolette is my daughter, although how he knows is still a mystery."

"Unless Marion told him. Is that possible?"

Illya looked stunned at that, his brow even more furrowed than before.

"New Orleans. It started there. The man in the flowered shirt… Remember him? He works for Roberts."

Napoleon's eyebrows raised in surprise. When had this information come to his friend, and why hadn't he heard about it before now?

Illya recognized the question before it was asked.

"It was a fluke, Napoleon. I happened to see the two of them together one day, at the deli down on the corner. It was one of those moments when everyone's eyes meet and you recognize one another. I tried to blend into a crowd and get out, but they both saw me and it was obvious that I had seen and recognized our shirt guy. It was only later than I found out who Roberts is, and then I put it together."

Napoleon whistled, his irritation at being kept out of the loop on this subdued by his concern now for everyone involved.

"I should have mentioned it to you earlier, I realize that. But, in all fairness, you were out of the country for a few weeks, and this only just started being a problem in the past few days. I've had so much to get done here, and then…'

For the millionth time (if anyone were counting) Illya ran his hand through his hair, pushing it back until Napoleon thought he might tie it up in a ponytail.

"The problem is real, the threats are real and the danger is real. We must get Marion to stop this silly game she's playing and get both her and Nicolette to safety before… "

Napoleon reached across the desk and put his hand on top of Illya's, a show of solidarity for the task ahead.

"Yes, we will. We will keep them safe, Illya. I promise."

The years hadn't changed anything. Napoleon always kept his promise,


	7. Chapter 7

Nathan Roberts surveyed his office with a jaundiced eye. It was nice, but not nice enough for someone who aspired to the heights he envisioned for himself. Once a mere footnote in THRUSH's directory of agents, the man had found a way to ingratiate himself into Central's mainframe, had become the top man in a very desirable commodity known as Dynatel.

He also envisioned a more intimate relationship with Marion Lindsay. Her last name, maiden name that is, appealed to his sense of irony: Raven. How appropriate that a THRUSH should steal the heart of a raven.

Marion had listened to Napoleon's wisdom and promised to back down from her pursuit of Gerald's killer. That wasn't stopping her from having dinner tonight with Nathan, however. He would be suspicious if she broke their date. She considered calling Napoleon and letting him know about it, but she wasn't really worried. Surely he wouldn't do something as foolish as hurt her. Would he?

Nicolette Lindsay was studying college catalogs. It was only a matter of months before she would need to pack up and head for a new life, something she was looking forward to. She didn't want to stay around and watch her mother make a huge mistake by marrying that creep Nathan. Nicolette didn't trust the man, and was caught between her loathing of him and her love for Marion. If only someone could help rescue her mother from this awful scene.

Rescuing Marion was exactly what Illya Kuryakin intended to do. Where he might have failed nineteen years earlier, there was no intention of repeating the same mistake now. Regardless of the cost, he would not allow Nathan Roberts to harm Marion or Nicolette, nor would he back down out of fear; he never had before nor would he do so now. Between them, he and Napoleon would find a way to dismantle the fortress that Roberts was building within Gerald Lindsay's business.

Illya had decided to send Regina to Paris rather than make the trip himself. She knew his business as well as he did, and would be better equipped to handle the situation there. His mind would not allow him to concentrate on anything other than the situation here with Marion and Nicolette. These women were all that mattered to him right now, albeit late for any real thanks from them he assumed.

Napoleon had his own ideas about things, and wondered just how much of Illya's activities in the past few years had been related to … hmmm… How to phrase it?

"Illya, I'm still a little confused about something.'

He watched Illya's hairline raised along with his eyebrows at that.

"I am wondering, just a little, at Nathan Roberts being able to identify you as an UNCLE agent. This is a new generation of thugs we're talking about, and you haven't been in that scene for over a decade."

The blue eyes of his friend bore something like a hole through Napoleon, a not too subtle reminder of why so many enemies had steered clear of the Russian in the old days.

"I'm not sure I understand your point, Napoleon. Or, is it a question?"

Clearing his throat, the former CEA of UNCLE Northwest reclaimed some of his earlier superiority and put his _point_ to its target.

"What I'm asking, _Illya_, is have you continued to play in the spy game during these past years. Has Vanya been a front of some sort? I mean, a salon in Vladivostok? I'm surprised the CIA and the FBI don't hold regular raids on your sites."

Very calmly and without a single flinch, Illya replied to the inquiry, if it could be termed as such.

"I'm not selling American secrets, if that's what you mean.'

"It isn't, and you know that."

Napoleon affected an affront at that, sending him reeling into the past for just a few seconds.

"People have kept tabs on me through the years. I'm certain that comes as no surprise, given how dedicated everyone was back in the day to keeping me in line, or trying to.'

A confession was forthcoming. Another confessions, too many for comfort considering they were coming from a man whose primary intent in life had been to not divulge anything.

"I agreed to ferry some information between certain notable people, via my designs. Do you remember that awful affair in the garment district? The one with the fabric and the THRUSH code…?"

A fuzzy memory came back to Napoleon as he recalled a goofy guy with hair longer than Illya's, and that girl…

Illya recognized the thought process being engineered by his friend; a small smile crept into view at the absurdity being reviewed.

"Yes, that one. I've been doing something similar within my textiles, periodically, in order to send information from one to another within this strange mélange of intrigue. I never got more involved than that, but it has kept me somewhat in the game."

Napoleon whistled softly, the idea of utilizing a THRUSH invention to affect diplomacy was brilliant and slightly demented. He wondered at the secrets still held by his friend, and the life he lived just under the radar.

"Okay, so you've kept your hands in it, so to speak, and remained out of range of all parties involved. When did Nathan Roberts become part of it?"

Illya heaved a sigh so heavy Napoleon thought it might make a dent in something. How much more could there be to this story?

"Roberts is climbing the ladder within the new THRUSH. He came out of a business background in which he had done fairly well, made good contacts and all the while ingratiating himself with the hierarchy. After the debacle with Sepharin and the failure to set off the bomb, or even collect the money, people like Nathan Roberts have had an open door to topple those who had tried to rejuvenate the organization. It's people like him, like Roberts, who are making THRUSH into a competitive entity once again; they're taking on technology in a new way, embracing the changes that are occurring with the advent of computers and advanced telephony. It's right up their alley, so to speak, and taking over a business like Dynatel is an obvious, but brilliant move.'

Illya looked hard at his friend, the information was nothing new to Napoleon but the intensity of the blond's delivery had a heat behind it that convinced the older man that he had not underestimated the Russian's involvement with international affairs.

Illya continued…

"Roberts did his homework, and with a thorough examination of what he could locate, the relationship between Marion and me came up, I'm guessing, and then he put some things together…"

"And he figured out that Gerald Lindsay wasn't Nicolette's father."

Illya nodded, ran his hands through his hair in that familiar gesture, and resumed the narrative.

"As I mentioned before, I ran into Roberts in that deli, while he was chatting with the fellow from New Orleans. It took me by surprise, and then he saw me. Suddenly everything changed. I received a photograph in the mail, of Marion and Nicolette at a charity function of some sort. Nothing else, no note… just that photograph. Of course I knew what it meant."

Napoleon winced involuntarily. He realized, like Illya had, that it was a threat.

"Sort of like blackmail. Say one word and they…"

"Yes. It isn't an option, of course, to stay silent. But, I needed a plan. I waited for you to get back here, but you saw what it's escalated towards; the workrooms and the shooting, the Paris salon. He's getting bolder and, perhaps, more desperate. He can't afford to be exposed."

Napoleon read even more into it.

"He can't afford you, tovarisch. You're the real threat now, and I'm betting that everything else is a distraction. I believe you're the one who needs protection right now, Illya."

Illya was up now, pacing in front of the upholstered wall. Something struck Napoleon as he looked at that, and then he had it. Suddenly and without a doubt, it was right in front of him.

"I think I know how to handle this, Illya. I have a plan."


	8. Chapter 8

If ever there was a confidence in a man's ability to strategize on a dime, it was within Illya Kuryakin concerning Napoleon Solo. How many times had the American concocted the most outrageous plan in the slimmest of time allotments, only to amaze and confound his willing partner as they tromped on some THRUSH schemer, ending yet another attempt at world domination.

Now, standing in his own office, Illya wondered if it were possible that his friend really had a workable plan for them to execute.

"That was sudden, even for you my friend."

Napoleon agreed. But in this room there were keys to their next steps, but only if Illya was willing.

"You, my dear Russian, are the nightmare that is keeping Nathan Roberts up at night. With you out of the way he has a clear shot at Marion, or so he thinks, and the entire Dynatel empire."

Illya huffed, just slightly.

"It isn't exactly an empire, Napoleon…"

Jealousy?

"Illya, Dynatel is a very impressive business. Give Lindsay his due."

His due? He already had Marion, and his daughter. There was more that Illya must relinquish to the man? Then again, he was dead.

"All right, so he built an empire, of sorts. What exactly is it that you are proposing? I feel as though I'm going to be sporting a target on my back, and I must tell you, I'm not fond of that role."

Napoleon remembered, had an instant memory of Illya in a white lab coat that he wore over a turtleneck sweater with a large bulls eye on the back. God, they had been so young and brash in those days.

"No targets, tovarisch. Just a little showing in your salon, something intimate and exclusive. I think we can get Marion to bring Roberts here, and then we'll have him alone. Can you still interrogate with only a chilling expression?"

Illya smiled at that. It was not by accident that the Russian had gained the title "Ice Prince", nor was it merely because he could be mistaken for a dispassionate man. THRUSH had feared him at times, something he recalled with some satisfaction.

"I suppose I can put together some new things and call it a show. Perhaps in the guise of a benefit. Does UNCLE still have that front going?"

Napoleon nodded as both men got into the spirit of the event. Nathan Roberts would have to walk into their den, and without his armed thugs beside him.

~~~~~:

With their plan in motion, both men had a list of things to do before the date chosen for the show. It would take at least four days, and without Regina to run things for him, Illya had to take on some more of the workroom supervision than normal. He couldn't afford to call his dedicated assistant back from Paris, that was still a gaping hole in his business.

Napoleon handled the invitations, several of which went to friends of his who would be handy should trouble erupt. Marion was clued in and promised to get Nathan Roberts to the show, no matter what. She also decided to ship her daughter to her aunt's home in Maryland, something that did not go over well with Nicolette.

"Mom, I don't want to go to Aunt Bertie's house… pulease…"

Marion cringed at the whining sound of her daughter's plea. At eighteen years of age (almost nineteen, she was constantly reminded), Nicolette was at once a child and a sophisticated young woman. It was disarming how much she reminded Marion of Illya; that look in her eyes when she was disappointed or the sly smile that emerged when she was pleased with something.

"Darling, it's only for the weekend. I'm going to be very busy and… well, I just need for you to know that it's important to me that you go. Will you please just do this for your mother?"

Nicolette hated it when her mother did that. She always felt guilty to disappoint the woman, knowing how much she had lost when her father died. She could even forgive her for dating Nathan Roberts, but only if it didn't go any farther than dating. No way would Nicolette Lindsay stand for having that man as a step-father.

"Oh, all right. Can I fly this time, instead of taking the train?"

It was a small concession, and would save some time in the long run. Marion found it hard to say no to her daughter, even harder than it had been to say no to Illya all of those years ago.

Her slip into the memory caused Nicolette to wonder what her mother was thinking, and if it was about the man whose picture she had seen once. Only once, but it was enough to make her wonder about things.

Nicolette had wondered why she didn't have any of the same traits as her father, even though she wasn't a carbon copy of her mother. Usually there was something that a child might gain from its parent, but there weren't any similarities between Nicolette and Gerald.

That picture, however, had caused her to look at herself in the mirror and compare. Her eyes had the same expression as the man she had seen only briefly. And his build, slight and not quite as tall as her mother, made her think of her own height. Gerald Lindsay had been a tall man, over six feet, and Marion was several inches taller than Nicolette. Peculiar.

What was truly surprising was that Nicolette wasn't bothered by it, but rather took the possibility to heart as something slightly romantic and probably mysterious. She was pragmatic enough to realize that, were she not Gerald's daughter, then the reason for their little family must lie in some tragic, Shakespearean type of story that would be both thrilling and heartbreaking. As much as Nicolette loved her father, she was not completely shocked at the possibility that there might be someone else in her mother's past, and possibly her own. She thought it was probably the most intriguing type of secret.

Illya had several garments being flown in from the salon in Vladivostok. In spite of Napoleon's first impressions, the presence of a couturier in that city was simply forward thinking. Illya was pleased to have a presence in the East, even if it did serve as a cover at times for varying degrees of espionage. He tried to stay out of it, submitting only to the requests for textile designs that held messages in one of a kind garments. Nothing was ever produced in quantities of more than one, true to his aesthetic as a couturier.

Now he was running late as he scanned the airport for his messenger. The man making the delivery would be boarding another flight for Paris as soon as he handed over the package, and the tight schedule had meant someone needed to be at the airport to receive it. Illya decided he would make the trip, allowing him to get out of his office for an hour or two and even grab a drink in one of the airport bars. Small pleasures were sometimes necessary. He collected the garments from his emissary and bade him bon voyage on his trip to Paris. Then Illya decided to grab a late lunch, his mind on any possibilities he might encounter here in this crowd.

It was while Illya was thinking of these things that he saw them: Marion and Nicolette had arrived at the airport early and were going to eat at a little café on the mezzanine. In one of those moments that seem to freeze time, all three of them looked up in time to exchange glances that spoke to each of them of secrets and feelings so long ago hidden from view.

Nicolette recognized Illya as the man in the picture. He was older, but there was no mistaking the eyes and mouth; they were her eyes and mouth.

And now her mother was staring at him, speechless for once as he stood in front of them, his arms full of some type of package.

"Marion… I… (he sighed)… You look wonderful."

Both Illya and Marion just stood looking at each other while Nicolette watched like a mere spectator. She was only eighteen, but she wasn't stupid.

"Illya, what on earth are you doing here… with that huge package?"

Nicolette thought that was an odd thing to say to a man who was most probably… well, it was difficult to say exactly just what he was. Still, the question seemed sort of silly.

"Oh, well… it's for the show. You know, you're coming aren't you?"

Napoleon was supposed to have contacted Marion about the plan, and she was to have already engineered a way to get Nathan Roberts to attend with her.

"Oh yes! The show… yes, well then… I suppose you're very busy…"

Her voice sort of trailed off at that, leaving everyone to wonder what was supposed to happen next.

Illya recovered his composure and tried to set things right. He was trying to not look at his daughter, trying very hard to ignore the beautiful young woman who now stood within an arm's embrace, something that he hadn't allowed for nearly two decades.

"Oh, Illya this is my daughter, Nicolette. Darling, Mr. Kuryakin and I are old friends, and…"

Nicolette recognized the name now, and she could hardly believe that this man, this famous designer…

"You? You are Illya Kuryakin, of the House of Vanya? Oh my gosh, you have some of your gowns in that package? May I see them, I mean… wow, I'm just so impressed."

Illya was completely caught off guard at that expression of admiration, and he thought that perhaps it was all worth it just knowing that this girl, his daughter, admired him from a distance. It was something, just this small bit of a connection.

Nicolette thought she saw him blush slightly, and a feeling of familiarity crept into her emotions as she considered how handsome Illya was, and how charming. At least to her, he seemed charming. The verdict was still out on her mother's reaction.

"I am, yes. I would love to show you these garments, however I am running late. The show is in two days, and our plans must be followed to the tee."

Illya hoped that Marion understood what he was saying. Napoleon wanted Roberts to come to this show, and they needed her to get him there.

"Oh, yes I understand perfectly, Illya. I am very excited to attend, and definitely bringing someone."

Nicolette couldn't believe what she was hearing. A show, with this man (a man about whom she had some very interesting suspicions), and her mother was taking someone else.

"Can I go with you mother? I would so love to see a couturier show by Mr. Kuryakin. I can't believe you'd send me off to Maryland instead of taking me to see this show."

Now both Marion and Illya were caught off guard. Nicolette could not be present; in spite of precautions there was always the possibility of some danger.

"No, it is not possible my dear daughter. Perhaps another time, but not this one. Don't pout, please. We have our plans, let's just stick to them."

Illya heaved a sigh of relief that he hoped no one else observed. The airport noise was beginning to pound in his ears as loud speakers announced arrivals and departures and the conversation of hundreds of people began to advance on his lack of calm.

"I really must be going. I will see you at the show, Marion. I'm so glad to have met you, Nicolette…'

His eyes rested on the girl as he resisted the impulse to gather her into his arms and relinquish the package he held to whomever would take it. But, he didn't. He merely smiled and nodded to them both as he took his leave. His heart was beating out a rhythm that defied how fit he was.

As Marion and Nicolette watched Illya walk away, they both secreted their emotions into a small opening that allowed no other thoughts.

This man was someone they each needed.


	9. Chapter 9

Illya was deep in thought as he made his way out of the terminal, his package of garments a mere afterthought now to the encounter with Marion and Nicolette. So engrossed was he in reviewing what had just occurred that he missed the two men who were now shadowing him as he headed towards the parking structure. The inattention was short lived, however, and Illya quickly regained his emotional equilibrium and the intuitive awareness of an enemy close by.

There were several people heading in the same direction, something that made an ambush unlikely. It was more probable that the two were going to follow the designer to his car and then try and bully him into submission. It was, of course, an error on their part to assume that Illya Kuryakin was anything like whatever stereotype these two had in mind. It was also an error on Illya's part that had put him in this position, and he was not entirely certain that he would be able to ward off an attack.

What he did next stupefied his stalkers.

Illya stopped cold in his tracks and turned towards the two men who had followed him into the parking garage. A few other travelers were heading for their own vehicles, unconcerned about anyone else's business, anxious to reach their individual destinations.

"Are you planning on mugging me right here in plain sight?"

The two feigned ignorance and an unconvincing shock at being suddenly accused. One of them, the taller of the two and a slightly balding version of Victor Mature replied gruffily.

"Hey, whaddya talking about, mister?'

Turning to his partner he continued his denial.

"Marty, this guy thinks we're gonna try and do somethin' to him"

Marty laughed nervously, his eyes on the small blond with the big package. He couldn't see where his right hand was beneath the black garment bag, and he had a dim memory of Kuryakin's record with UNCLE. Perhaps this wasn't a good idea after all.

"Say, let's just all say 'so long' and call it a day. What d'ya say?"

Illya initiated that feral smile for which he had gained some part of his reputation. That combined with an icy blue glare was enough to make these two reconsider the task that had brought them here. This guy was no easy mark, and Mr. Roberts might just need to snatch him another time.

"Yeah, we're sorry we startled you. Have a nice day, okay…"

Illya stood his ground, his expression willing them to depart. He took some pleasure in noting that they did not turn their backs to him, but kept him in view as they headed back towards the elevator.

"Amateurs."

It was a snort of derision that was interrupted by a stinging sensation in his left shoulder. The thin fabric of his linen shirt yielded easily to the dart from Nathan Robert's gun. If he had learned anything about succeeding in business, it was the first rule of any good leader: If you want something done right, get someone else to do the legwork and then make the deciding blow yourself.

Kuryakin turned as quickly as he could when he felt the icy prick, his eyes landing coldly on the figure he had come to loathe. Nathan Roberts had let his henchmen lead him to Kuryakin, and now he would handle matters the way he knew they should go. The ruse of a fashion show had been a good imitation of a clever plan, but he was younger than the two UNCLE agents who dogged him now. Maybe they had been a big deal in their day, but this day belonged to him, Nathan Roberts. He would climb the ladder to the top of the new THRUSH, he would own Dynatel, and nothing in UNCLE's machinery could stop him.

Marion was expendable as soon as he took complete control of  
Dynatel, and nothing, not even the girl or her father, would get in his way.

Roberts motioned to his driver to gather up the fallen Russian before anyone saw what had happened. They left behind the garment bag full of couturier gowns that illya had dropped to the ground before falling into the grasp of the burly chauffeur. The oversight was a mistake that was also the mark of an amateur. In spite of Nathan Robert's rise within the hierarchy, he was not of the same caliber of villains that Napoleon and Illya had battled in the early years. He lacked the finesse of someone like Victor Marton. A good strategist was more likely to succeed, and a clever man who understood his enemy would stand a better chance at victory than an arrogant fool with an arsenal of fancy toys.

If some of the older THRUSH had waxed poetic about the qualities of agents like Napoleon Solo, the same was true when comparing modern THRUSH thugs to the characters of the old regime. Even larceny looked better with a degree of style.

With Kuryakin in tow, Roberts seemed to think his victory was won. What he hadn't counted on was the tenacity of the men involved, something he would soon encounter. Until then, he had plans for the blond. He observed now, as Illya lay slumped in the back seat of Robert's Mercedes, that he was smaller than he had realized. He also looked younger than he had anticipated, and so obviously the father of Marion's daughter that he wondered no one had taken notice of it before now.

Gerald Lindsay had been a fool to knowingly raise another man's child. No wonder it had been so easy to manipulate him, to insert himself into Lindsay's company. All it required was gaining the trust of those who were weaker, something at which Nathan Roberts excelled.

No matter. He had a score to settle with this Kuryakin fellow. Plans had been diverted, timetables skewed… all because this spy turned designer had spotted him with a known THRUSH agent. Now things would be set right, and a new power within the hierarchy would emerge. If he gained some bragging rights by toppling Kuryakin, and perhaps his partner Napoleon Solo as well, then so be it.

A smile wrapped itself around Robert's face, his handsome features taking on a slightly sinister effect. He had a streak of violence that always remained below the surface, dormant beneath the façade of charm and professional ease. Now he had a reason to let it come out and play.

Nathan Roberts would see just how tough this Illya Kuryakin really was.


	10. Chapter 10

There is a fog that envelopes a person after being drugged. Whether it lasts for a few minutes, hours or even days, that fog changes the perception of both time and events. THRUSH drugs had remained, at least to Illya Kuryakin, the worst kind of punishment that he had ever endured. Not any amount of years could put enough distance between him and the misery of a knockout punch administered by a THRUSH needle.

As Illya began to emerge from the fog, he felt the familiar tug on his wrists, the extension of his arms above his head and the leering gaze of Nathan Roberts. 'Some things never change', he glumly concluded as he noted his lack of proper clothing as well; he was dangling from an overhead beam, stripped of his shirt, socks and shoes, and his pockets were turned out as though to remind him that everything was now gone from his arsenal of tools.

"So, Mr. Illya Kuryakin, in the flesh."

Nathan Roberts had assumed an appropriately smug attitude, proving to Illya once again that there really was a personality type that flocked (unintentional pun) to THRUSH. Leave it to a delusional megalomaniac to think hanging an UNCLE agent by his wrists would get him some place important.

"I believe it is more flesh than necessary, but then that is only my opinion."

Roberts' disdain was evident in his expression. A decade younger than the Russian, the acting head of Dynatel considered the smaller and older man a threat, albeit a minor one. Nathan Roberts was confident of his own abilities and, to some degree, sense of destiny. He had been born to lead… no, make that dominate.

"You, Mr. Kuryakin, are the stuff of legends among some members of THRUSH. I suppose even I have fallen prey to those bigger than life stories, although, looking at you here, I find it difficult to believe you were that much of a menace. I think perhaps the years have provided some additional gloss to your history. Yours and Mr. Solo's, of course, since it was the partnership that seemed to provoke such fear and awe among the hierarchy."

Illya attempted to look bored, but in truth his arms hurt and his back was beginning to ache unbearably. Age really was an antagonist in situations like this. No wonder he enjoyed his current job so much.

"The hierarchy did an impressive swan dive into oblivion, so apparently some of us did prove useful to the cause of right and justice."

Roberts snorted, then seemed to regret the lack of dignity in that particular expression. He looked around the dimly lit room, considering the ease with which he had attained an attitude of superiority over almost everyone. He wondered if Kuryakin could not identify the obvious skill of his captor.

"The only really relevant justice in life is the assumption of power by the appropriate people."

Illya's indrawn breath, so much a characteristic of the man, betrayed his lack of agreement. Roberts was simply another demented THRUSH.

"I take it you believe yourself to be one of these _appropriate _ people. It is an old song, Roberts, and you will have no more success than those before you."

The air of dismissal heard in the Russian's comments enraged Nathan Roberts. He had constructed this room especially for moments such as this, for people like Kuryakin. Soundproof and equipped with tools for his particular brand of sadism, this secret place wasn't anything like a garden of delights; at least not to those he invited here for his own enjoyment.

Illya was watching the other man with a degree of dread that brought back a thousand memories of his past life with UNCLE. How many lunatics had tried to break him, had taken some perverse pleasure in torturing him until he cried out in agony at the pain of his wounds or broken bones? The thought of this man having contact with his daughter only served to harden Illya's resolve to stop Nathan Roberts, knowing that regardless of what was done to him, it was no longer an option to fail in that pursuit.

As the captive was thinking these things, Roberts was picking out an implement with which he might inflict some damage to the blond who was hanging from the mechanical arm he had installed in the ceiling. That device could move from side to side on a track, and was able to lower or raise whatever was attached to it. At the moment, Illya was attached to it and he sensed some motion above him and began to swing slightly as the arm moved to his left, positioning him closer to a wall that was decorated with a series of buttons.

Roberts had a familiar glee in his expression, one that Illya had seen more times than he cared to remember. No matter how sophisticated a person might appear to be, eventually the THRUSH persona would emerge, full of the insanity necessary to try and fulfill these dreadful plans. He decided there must be a genetic link somewhere that would explain this kind of lunacy.

Illya's wrists throbbed at the motion, and he wondered that the joints didn't dislodge from his weight hanging from them. There wasn't any way out of this that Illya could see at the moment. A rescue would have been nice, although without a correct sense of time he didn't even know if anyone had missed him yet.

Roberts was fiddling with the controls on the panel of buttons, something that caught Illya's attention and prompted a tinge of apprehension; he refused to acknowledge it as fear. For a minute he wondered if he would have to be satisfied with the solitary meeting he had enjoyed with his daughter. What if he never had the opportunity to see her again? That question reinvigorated him and he began to work his hands in such a way that he hoped would allow them to slide through the cuffs that held him. He was good at escaping, and today should be no different from times past.

Just as Illya thought he might be successful at slipping through the cuffs, Roberts pushed a button on the panel that instantly shot a jolt of electricity through Illya's body. The apparatus from which he was hanging was a conductor, and the jolt that he endured took his breath away, almost causing him to pass out.

"Ha…' Roberts laughed out loud at his little trick. The expression on Kuryakin's face had been priceless, and he realized that his own enjoyment was certainly worth any toll it might take on the other man.

Illya, for his part, went completely limp. The ache through his entire body felt completely debilitating, and he lacked the strength now to raise himself up and catch hold of the chain to which the cuffs were attached. The strain on his wrists was almost unbearable now, and he lapsed into unconsciousness with the image of his daughter a fading glimpse of what might have been.


	11. Chapter 11

Napoleon was waiting for Illya to arrive back at his office. The workroom was humming with activity, the seamstresses preparing for the impromptu showing that their boss had announced just a few days earlier. Most of the women enjoyed being part of this enterprise; many of them emitted involuntary sighs every time the blond designer came into their territory. More than one of them had dreamt of him, flowing fabrics and long blond hair becoming the stuff of fantasies. Not surprisingly, the fabric of their dreams was often blue, both visually and emotionally.

As Napoleon took some liberties in examining his friend's office, his communicator warbled, breaking his concentrated observation of a particularly provocative design. When, he wondered, did this Illya come into existence?

"Solo here."

"Ah, Mr. Solo…'

The voice of Sir John was still not normal to Napoleon. He found himself missing the distinctive voice of his former mentor and boss.

"Yes, Sir John. What can I do for you?"

Napoleon and Illya weren't involved with anything UNCLE related at the moment. All of their efforts were, well… unofficial.

"It has come to my attention, as I am confident it has come to yours as well, that there is some THRUSH activity involving …'

The Englishman paused, his sense of decorum preceding almost everything he did…

"Well, I do not wish to sound indelicate, but Mr. Kuryakin's past seems to have produced someone… shall we say, of interest to THRUSH."

Napoleon had wondered if Nathan Roberts would eventually make it into UNCLE's line of vision. Now, here it was and Illya wasn't even around to help him explain the current situation and what they were doing about it.

"Yes, actually we… that is, Illya and I, are very aware of things. I suppose you are referring to Nathan Roberts. Oh, and… Miss Lindsay."

Sir John Raleigh was a gentleman of some old fashioned aristocratic breeding. Not even the current decade could dissuade him from propriety regarding a woman's reputation.

"Yes, it seems that Mrs. Lindsay and Mr. Kuryakin were, at some point, involved shall we say."

"I believe you can say that. I am assuming that you know about Nicolette Lindsay, then. Mr. Kuryakin's daughter."

Napoleon almost hated to bring it up, feeling a little as though he were being disloyal to his friend. However, since Sir John was already aware of things, there was no point in wasting time with game playing.

"Mr. Kuryakin and Marion Raven-Lindsay are both in terrible danger, Mr. Solo. I believe that, in fact, Mr. Kuryakin has already been abducted, and possibly subjected to some unpleasantness at the hands of Nathan Roberts."

Napoleon was stunned, but it made sense now that Illya had not returned from the airport within the time frame they had discussed. But how did Sir John know about it?

"Uh, excuse me sir, but how do you…?"

"How do I know? We have a man on the inside, Mr. Solo. Your old friend Mr. Kowalski is entrenched as a member of the household staff, not a small accomplishment as you can well imagine."

Napoleon actually could not imagine Benjamin Kowalski as a … what? A butler or a chauffeur?

"Sir, just exactly how do we know that Illya has been taken by Roberts?"

The acting head of UNCLE drew in a breath, and Napoleon had a clear image of the man as he spoke.

"Mr. Kowalski spotted Mr. Kuryakin, actually. He, Mr. Kowalski, has been working as part of the grounds keeping crew at Mr. Roberts' rather indulgent residence. When the car returned, Mr. Kowalski was able to identify Mr. Kuryakin being carried from the car and into a lift in the garage. He was, according to the report, unconscious."

Napoleon bristled at that. It was unacceptable for Illya to be in the hands of Nathan Roberts, being subjected to some typical THRUSH torture, no doubt.

"Sir, is anyone watching Marion … Mrs. Lindsay? And what about Nicolette? Where is she?"

Too many questions. Suddenly Napoleon felt slightly out of control, the old assurance was not completely intact, and knowing that everyone involved in this affair was in danger did little to heighten his own sense of well being.

"I have a female agent posted to Mrs. Lindsay's home, and another agent is observing the house. Miss Lindsay boarded a plane earlier today, bound for Baltimore. She is staying with her mother's aunt, it seems."

Napoleon knew about Baltimore, Marion had told him of her plans for Nicolette. What he didn't know for certain was…

"Oh, and we do have an agent in Baltimore looking after Miss Lindsay. We are on top of things, Mr. Solo, so you can rest easy on that count."

Napoleon didn't feel like resting easy. Illya was undoubtedly in trouble if Nathan Roberts had him, and he wasn't completely convinced that Marion and Nicolette were really safe. Still, his first order of business was to go get his friend. It was just like the old days, and he hoped the outcome would be another example of their brand of success.

"Sir John, I'd like to go and retrieve Illya if you don't mind. I'm sure he's waiting for me, rather impatiently I imagine."

"Yes, yes indeed I suspected you would want to be involved. Mr. Kowalski is waiting to hear from you… channel M. Keep me informed, please."

With that the conversation ended, and Napoleon quickly summoned channel M, and Benjamin Kowalski. He hadn't seen the younger agent for several months, their paths not crossing since their partnership during the business with Sepheran and that business at the dam.

"Open channel M… Solo here."

"Hey, Napoleon! Listen man, I'm here at Nathan Robert's big fancy digs, and he has your friend inside. I don't feel too good about this, I gotta tell you."

Napoleon smiled. In spite of their shaky start, he had been impressed with the agent, in spite of their obvious differences in style and substance.

"Hello Benjamin. Do you know where Illya is on the premises? I would rather get him out sooner than later. If you'll give me an address I'll be there…"

"Look, I don't know what we can do for him. Robert's has some secret room down in the basement, and the elevator requires a special code of some sort. I haven't been able to crack it."

"Listen, there isn't any option. I must get Illya out of there before Robert's kills him… or worse."

Benjamin Kowalski couldn't think of anything worse than dead, but he understood these two were friends, with a partnership behind them that still made people at UNCLE nod their heads appreciatively. It had taken Kowalski a little longer than some to understand it, but after seeing them in action, well, he respected what they had.

"Okay, Napoleon. I'm with you buddy."

And with that the directions to Roberts' home were relayed to the older agent and a rescue plan was formulated.

For Illya Kuryakin, it couldn't come too soon.


	12. Chapter 12

Nathan Roberts waited patiently for Illya to regain consciousness. Certainly a little jolt of electricity shouldn't kill the man, he thought. If Marion could see her UNCLE hero now perhaps she wouldn't be so enamored of him. After all of these years Nathan conjectured that she still had a thing for the blond, especially since she had rebuffed him the other evening. He was, apparently, good enough to pay for dinner but not for anything more than that.

Good enough. Nathan Roberts was better than good enough. He was someone Marion should be grateful to be seen with; this little blond designer didn't look so hot now, not stripped down to his obvious weaknesses.

Illya feigned unconsciousness in an attempt to better acquaint himself with his surroundings. The jolt of electricity had been excruciating, and his arms and legs were aching as though he had been pulled apart on some medieval torture contraption.

It was obvious that Roberts was waiting for him to show some sign of life, and Illya determined to make him wait a long time, or at least until he had some idea of how to escape. His wrists were in agony. His entire body hurt. Damn it, where was Napoleon anyway. Didn't he realize it was his turn to rescue someone?

"Ahem… Mr. Kuryakin… hello. I think it's time for you to wake up now."

Nathan sensed that Illya was cognizant of him now, was probably fully aware and conscious. He persisted in an annoying sing-song voice, something Illya swore to stop… permanently.

"Mr. UNCLE man, I think you've played possum long enough. Or, would you prefer another little jolt from my electric box, hmmm? Perhaps that will wake you up."

Illya bobbed his head, lifting it up just far enough to get a look at his tormentor. He hurt all over. He didn't remember it ever being like this in the old days.

"Ah, better. I think we need some new diversion, don't you. Perhaps a new and improved water torture, or … I've got it!"

Roberts came down from his perch on the bench next to his control panel. He walked around Illya, eyeing the man from head to toe. It irritated the blond, and in an instant in which all caution was thrown predictably into the wind, Illya kicked out his legs and locked them around Nathan's neck. His arms started flapping wildly as he fought against the grip, flailing repeatedly as Illya held on tight.

Just as Illya was gaining a real advantage, a door opened and Robert's chauffeur, Morton, rushed in, disentangling his boss from the Russian's grip. As the victim fell to his knees gagging and coughing, Morton struck Illya's midsection with a vicious blow. Illya gasped as air was driven out, and then the cuffs that had held him for the past hour opened up, causing him to freefall to the concrete below.

Without any strength in his arms, Illya had no means to break his fall resulting in an ugly splat on the unforgiving surface. He thought he heard a rib crack as his body landed hard on the concrete. Nathan had recovered enough to stand up, and was hovering over the injured man, his eyes full of hatred and indignation at the Russian's maneuvers just moments before.

"That's it! Take him, Morton, and don't be gentle. Dispose of him, but make certain that he suffers a little more, will you. I want to hear all about it when you return."

Morton nodded his head and mumbled something in agreement with his orders. Nathan Roberts wouldn't dirty his hands any more with this spy turned designer.

"Oh, but unless you think this is the end Kuryakin, I want you to know that your daughter won't escape my plans. You can go to your grave with the assurance that, one way or another, I will have to initiate your little girl into life's … shall we say… harsh reality. Make of that what you will."

With a smirk on his lips Nathan walked out of the room, as Illya lay helpless and hurting. The thought of his daughter in the hands of this vile person was the last thing in Illya's mind as he passed out.

Unknown to any of the men in this scene, Napoleon was close to Robert's house. Kowalski was waiting for him at the edge of the drive, pretending to tend to some perennials as he looked for the semi-retired UNCLE agent. This would be some operation, he mused to himself, and he hoped they weren't too late to help Kuryakin avoid being killed… or worse.

"Damn, now I'm thinking like the old man."

He spoke to himself, setting off a new round of concerns. Just then Napoleon came into view, pulling off the road just beyond the driveway. Benjamin dropped his trowel and ran over to meet Napoleon, jumping into the car while motioning for him to head towards the big four-car garage. As they headed there, the garage door started up, revealing the black Mercedes that had brought Illya and Nathan Roberts here.

"That's it, but Roberts isn't in there, just that big chauffeur."

Kowalski recognized this as a problem, and knew that the driver wouldn't go anyplace alone in that car. Illya had to be in there with him.

"Block him! Don't let him leave with Illya."

Napoleon looked at the younger man, marveling momentarily that he had already analyzed the situation and concluded that Illya was in the vehicle.

"Are you certain? Okay, here goes."

With that, Napoleon rammed the Mercedes, grimacing at the sound of metal on metal. He figured his expense report would be higher than what Sir John was accustomed to seeing on his desk.

After stopping the big black sedan, Napoleon nodded to Kowalski to take a look inside. The driver's door opened, and out tumbled Morton, a red streak across his forehead. Napoleon opened his door and stepped onto the driveway and without hesitation darted the lumbering chauffeur.

"Sorry, big guy", Napoleon said under his breath.

Benjamin looked inside the Mercedes, but came up empty and motioned to Napoleon to open the trunk. It was crunched, causing both men to wonder if they could get it open. Perhaps he shouldn't have hit the car with so much force…

Nathan Roberts had heard the commotion outside and emerged from his house with gun drawn. This entire ordeal was beginning to wear on his nerves. He should have just shot the Russian the first time he saw him and been done with it. Now what was going on?

What was going on was infuriating to the THRUSH as he saw the wreck that had been his car. The only positive thing was that Kuryakin was in the now demolished trunk, hopefully dead.

Benjamin Kowalski spotted Nathan Roberts first and shouted to Napoleon to shoot first, ask questions later. It was completely in character for him to do so, but not for Napoleon Solo.

Instead, the suave sometimes agent pointed his gun at Roberts before speaking to him in his most charming manner.

"Mr. Roberts, I presume. Perhaps we can talk about this… um, situation. It seems you have something that…well, used to belong to me."

Nathan could not resist the repartee and, with his gun aimed directly at Napoleon, decided this was a man with whom he could hold a conversation. He would kill him later, but the foreplay would be enjoyable. Kowalski was out of view, and Roberts seemed not to have heard him yelling at Napoleon. With all of the stealth of a well trained UNCLE agent, which he was, Benjamin inched his way around the Mercedes as Napoleon sauntered carefully up to the front door of the house. A row of boxwood shrubs lined the driveway, effectively blocking the view from where Roberts was standing. Kowalski had no doubt that Nathan Roberts would shoot Napoleon on a whim, and determined to take down the THRUSH before he had the opportunity to fire on his newly acquired friend. Friend? When had he started thinking of the old guy like that?

No matter, right now UNCLE had the advantage, and unless some more of Roberts' henchmen showed up, he and Napoleon should be able to handle the situation easily.

As Napoleon moved closer to Roberts' position, he began to recognize the look in the other man's eyes as one he had seen on so many occasions. The THRUSH types hadn't changed after all, only their suits and hair were different. The mindset was exactly the same as before.

"Mr. Solo, you can stop right… there.'

That smile made Napoleon want to retch. This maniac had Illya somewhere, had done no telling what to him. Everything inside of him wanted to shoot the creep now, but he needed to know where Illya was.

"Really, Nathan, what are you going to do, shoot me? What's the point? Your buddy over there is out for the count, and I don't see anyone else coming to your rescue."

"My rescue? It's just you and me, Solo. Your friend Kuryakin is as good as dead last time I saw him.'

That made a knot in Napoleon's stomach that he willed to straighten out.

"The way I see it, I'm still in control of this situation. And, I'm getting bored with you, so…"

Before he could finish his sentence and point his gun at Napoleon, Kowalski stood up and fired. Nathan Roberts looked stunned at first, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed on the steps to his house. Napoleon looked back at Benjamin and smiled, but his approval was cut short as he considered that Illya was still missing, most probably inside the trunk of the damaged Mercedes.

"Can we open the trunk?"

The question was accompanied by a worried expression, and Kowalski headed towards the open garage in order to find, he hoped, a crowbar to pop open the trunk lid. Napoleon opened a channel and requested medical aid to the scene, as well as a clean up crew and paddy wagon for the bad guys.

Kowalski came back with the crowbar and began working on the trunk. Slowly and with maximum effort, he pried it until it popped open.

Illya lay I curled up n a sort of fetal position, unconscious and worryingly pale. Napoleon reached in to check for a pulse, dreading the possibilities.

"He's alive, but he doesn't look good."

Kowalski shook his head, wondering why these guys had come back to UNCLE to be subjected to all of this… again.

"You want me to go finish off Roberts for you?"

It was a serious question, and Napoleon was tempted, just momentarily.

"You don't mean that, Benjamin. Or at least I'm going to assume you don't mean it, and not mention it to Sir John."

Both men smiled, understanding that, if necessary, they would do the job regardless of protocols.

"I just thought I'd offer. I hear a helicopter, must be medical."

Napoleon and Kowalski reached into the trunk to pick up the man inside. Illya moaned as they lifted him up, every bone in his body rebelling against the effort. He opened his eyes in time to catch the look on Napoleon's face; concern and anxiety were reflected back to him as he protested. He didn't think he could stand up, but the other two men were attempting to help him stay upright.

"Just let me lie down, I don't think…'

And then Illya passed out again. The medics were approaching as he collapsed, and began to pull out the paraphernalia that would save a life… perhaps his life.

The electric shock had taken a toll, the fall onto the concrete floor and more physical abuse at the hands of Morton had augmented the damage. The injured man was going into shock, and the paramedics worked to combat that while Napoleon looked on.

Kowalski supervised the clean up crew as they gathered up Roberts and Morton, and escorted them to the waiting cars that would take them to their secure destinations. Surprisingly, Nathan Roberts had not employed a large security force, relying on his oversized chauffeur as both bodyguard and bully. It had helped when it came to outplaying the player, but was of little comfort in light of Illya's injuries.

Napoleon wondered about Marion, and Nicolette. They were safe now, but what would happen in the aftermath of all this?


	13. Chapter 13

_This last chapter called for something special, and the song There's A Place was instantly playing in my head. You can find it on You Tube, and it is, of course, by the Beatles. We all need to find a Place..._

_~~~~~:_

_There's a place,_

_Where I can go,_

_When I feel low,_

_When I feel blue._

_And it's my mind,_

_And there's no time when I'm alone._

_I think of you,_

_And things you do,_

_Go 'round my head,_

_The things you said,_

_Like "I love only you."_

_In my mind there's no sorrow,_

_Don't you know that it's so._

_There'll be no sad tomorrow,_

_Don't you know that it's so._

_~~~~~: _

Illya woke up slowly, felt the tightness around his chest where bandages were holding his ribs together. His arms felt as though they had been used to span the Brooklyn Bridge.

In spite of the aches and pains that he recognized as part of the punishment he had received at the hands of Nathan Roberts, it was eerily comforting to know he was back in UNCLE Medical. Some things never changed, and his ability to know where he was now made him feel a little less vulnerable.

His thoughts went quickly to Marion and Nicolette. Were they safe?

Movement in the corner of the room caught Illya's attention, and he turned his head to see an image from the past. There sat Napoleon, like so many times before, sleeping in a chair and waiting for the injured to come back to life.

Things couldn't be too bad if Napoleon were here.

As if on cue, Napoleon was awake, his attention instantly riveted to Illya.

"Hey tovarisch, how are you feeling?"

Illya had to smile, and surprisingly it didn't hurt. It was the one spot on his body, he figured, that hadn't been damaged in the brutality of the past few hours. Or was it days ago? He would need to ask.

"I seem to have survived, and you as well.'

He paused, wanting to ask the question and hoping for a promising reply.

"Marion and Nicolette, are they all right?"

Napoleon nodded, rising to walk across to Illya's bed where he sat on the edge, rubbing the back of his neck in an effort to remove the kink that developed while he slept.

"They're both fine. In fact, they're here. They've been waiting to see you. Marion hasn't changed, she wouldn't leave here without seeing to it that you were going to live."

Napoleon's smile warmed Illya while the knowledge that Marion and his daughter were here made his heart feel lighter than it had in weeks.

Napoleon asked wordlessly if the women could come into the room, to which Illya smiled and replied 'yes'. The agent walked to the door and stuck his head out, and catching Marion's eye, he gestured with his fingers for her to come in.

Illya was attempting to sit up, scowling against the pain in his ribs as he did so. While he was in this process, Marion and Nicolette came through the door into his room. Marion walked to the bed and took control, helping to ease Illya up into a sitting position, cooing and comforting as only she had ever been able. Illya was transported back in time, and suddenly the sun was shining in on them as they lay in bed, wrapped in each other's arms and a love that he had truly only known once in his life.

"Thank you. I… I think this should do it."

Nicolette was standing next to Napoleon, her eyes so like Illya's that everyone present realized that some things could never be hidden; the truth would always out, as some would put it.

Marion motioned for her daughter to come to her side, her knowing smile not lost on the bed-ridden Russian.

"Here my darling, I believe Mr. Kuryakin is glad to see us. We certainly owe him our gratitude for… well, we just do."

Illya was lost in this new situation. What should he do now, how would it all fit into his life? How would Marion…?"

Nicolette spoke up, her fascination with this man now fully in bloom as she considered the probability of things.

"I'm so glad that you're … are you okay?"

Illya laughed, just a small laugh but suffused with a joy unknown thus far in his life.

"I am, Nicolette. Thank you for asking, and for being here. Both of you…'

He looked up at Marion, real gratitude on his face that she recognized for what it held.

"We're just so glad that you survived, Illya. Really, you still can't seem to stay out of trouble."

Marion's smile was like a light going on in the room. Napoleon watched this exchange with the utmost interest. Illya was rarely reduced to this type of meekness, was not generally outflanked by a woman's charm.

Nicolette stepped a little closer to Illya, putting out her hand to cover his.

"I'm so glad we met the other day, and I'm really just so, so glad to be here, Mr. Kuryakin."

Illya's heart skipped a beat, he would later say when telling this story.

"Please, call me Illya."

Nicolette smiled, determined to not let the moment pass…

"May I simply call you Dad?"

~~~~~:

_There's a place,_

_Where I can go,_

_When I feel low,_

_When I feel blue._

_And it's my mind,_

_And there's no time when I'm alone._

There's a place...

** There's A Place by Lennon/McCartney


End file.
